Chapter 10 - THE MAN ROMAN CALLED UNCLE
Z
Vittorio Rossi arrived at the estate for Sunday dinner carrying wine.
That alone made Sadi suspicious.
Roman’s family never brought gifts.
They brought information.
Debts.
Threats disguised as compliments.
Occasionally dessert.
Never wine.
Vittorio was sixty-two and handsome in the polished way rich men often became when money protected them from ordinary aging.
Silver hair.
Tailored navy suit.
Italian loafers.
Warm smile.
He kissed Sadi on both cheeks.
“La sposa.”
“The bride,” Sadi translated.
“Still.”
Vittorio smiled.
“You will always be the bride to me.”
Roman stood six feet away.
He did not smile.
Vittorio noticed.
“Bad week?”
“Busy.”
“Chicago survives?”
“For now.”
They embraced.
Sadi watched carefully.
Nothing about Vittorio suggested a man who had engineered the kidnapping of his sister-in-law.
He seemed affectionate.
Relaxed.
Almost fatherly.
Which frightened her more.
Dinner began normally.
Rosa served osso buco.
Roman barely ate.
Sadi asked Vittorio about Italy.
He told stories.
Roman’s childhood summers.
His mother Elena swimming across the lake despite Roman’s father forbidding it.
“She was stubborn,” Vittorio said fondly.
Roman’s fork stopped.
“So I’ve heard.”
Vittorio looked at him.
“You remember.”
“I remember everything about her.”
Sadi could feel the temperature change.
Vittorio reached for his wine.
“I would hope so.”
Roman’s hand tightened around his glass.
Sadi touched his knee beneath the table.
Wait.
Roman exhaled slowly.
Then Vittorio turned toward Sadi.
“How is museum life?”
“I love it.”
“Still playing with old paintings?”
“Conserving cultural objects.”
Roman glanced toward her.
She ignored him.
Vittorio smiled.
“I apologize. Conserving.”
“You’d be surprised what paintings hide.”
The sentence landed.
Roman looked at her sharply.
Sadi kept her expression pleasant.
Vittorio lifted his wine.
“I imagine secrets survive longer inside paintings than people.”
There.
Tiny.
Almost nothing.
But Sadi saw it.
A pause before the answer.
The slightest tightening around his eyes.
Roman saw it too.
Vittorio placed his glass down.
“Something interesting?”
“We found an envelope during treatment.”
Sadi heard Roman inhale.
Vittorio remained still.
“An envelope?”
“Old.”
“What did it contain?”
Sadi smiled.
“We’re still authenticating it.”
Vittorio returned her smile.
“Of course.”
Dinner continued.
Nobody tasted much after that.
When dessert arrived, Vittorio’s phone rang.
He glanced at the screen.
“I need to take this.”
Roman nodded.
Vittorio walked into the hallway.
The moment he disappeared, Roman leaned toward Sadi.
“What are you doing?”
“Watching him.”
“You told him.”
“I told him almost nothing.”
“You told him enough.”
“That was the point.”
Roman’s voice dropped.
“If he’s involved, you just told him you have evidence.”
“He already knew.”
Roman froze.
Sadi pointed toward the empty hallway.
“The archive was robbed thirty minutes after we opened the letter.”
“So?”
“So nobody outside that museum knew.”
Roman’s expression darkened.
“Margaret.”
“No.”
“How can you know?”
“Because the thief didn’t take random valuables. They took your mother’s archive.”
Roman stood.
“Where is Vittorio?”
The dining room doors opened.
Marco entered.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“Mr. Rossi left.”
Roman’s head snapped toward the hallway.
“How?”
“Service exit.”
Vittorio’s coat remained hanging by the front door.
His wine remained beside his plate.
Roman moved.
Sadi followed.
They reached the security room.
Camera footage showed Vittorio walking calmly down the hallway.
Then stopping beside the service entrance.
A black sedan waited outside.
He entered.
Gone.
Roman stared at the screen.
Marco spoke carefully.
“There’s more.”
He placed a small object on the desk.
A museum visitor badge.
Sadi recognized it immediately.
“What is that?”
“Found inside Mr. Rossi’s coat pocket.”
The badge had been issued two days earlier.
The date of the archive burglary.
Roman looked at Sadi.
“Maybe he visited.”
Sadi wanted to believe that.
Then she turned the badge over.
Handwritten on the back was a storage code.
A12-44.
Her blood cooled.
“That’s our archive shelving code.”
Roman’s expression became lethal.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Marco reached for his phone.
Roman stopped him.
“No.”
Marco frowned.
“No?”
“We do nothing yet.”
Sadi looked at her husband.
That was not what she expected.
Roman walked toward the windows.
“He wants us moving.”
“What?”
“If Vittorio left that badge in his coat, he either made a mistake he hasn’t made in forty years…”
Roman turned.
“Or he wanted us to find it.”
Sadi felt a chill.
“A trap.”
“Maybe.”
Marco folded his arms.
“So what now?”
Roman looked at Sadi.
“We find out why a man who has survived four decades in this family suddenly became careless.”
Sadi returned to the museum the following morning under security.
She hated it.
Two men followed her into the staff entrance.
One waited outside conservation.
Marco himself remained on the floor.
“You know,” Sadi said, “people are beginning to think I’m either famous or terrible at parallel parking.”
Marco did not smile.
“You’re married to Roman.”
“That doesn’t answer anything.”
“It answers most things.”
Margaret had already pulled the donation file.
The painting entered the museum collection in 1998.
Anonymous donor.
Transferred through a private Swiss trust.
Sadi traced ownership backward.
Italy.
Geneva.
New York.
Then one name appeared.
Elena Bianchi Rossi.
Roman’s mother.
The painting had belonged to her.
Sadi photographed the record.
Behind one transfer document was an invoice.
RESTORATION AND PRIVATE STORAGE.
Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.
Two years before Elena disappeared.
The company name meant nothing.
Bellini Preservation Services.
Sadi searched old records.
Closed in 2001.
One owner.
Maria Bellini.
She called Roman.
“Do you know Maria Bellini?”
Silence.
“No.”
“Your mother used her to restore the painting.”
“What else?”
“There’s an address.”
Roman’s voice sharpened.
“Where?”
Sadi read it.
Roman went silent.
“What?”
“That property belonged to Vittorio.”
Her stomach dropped.
“When?”
“All through the nineties.”
Sadi looked toward Margaret.
“Roman, the painting was stored on your uncle’s property before it entered the museum.”
“Come home.”
“I’m working.”
“Sadi.”
“You married a woman with a job.”
“My uncle might have arranged my mother’s murder.”
“And I might have the only paper trail connecting them.”
Silence.
Roman hated when she was right.
“I’m sending Marco inside.”
“He’s already here.”
“Good.”
Sadi smiled.
“You knew.”
“I know everything.”
“You didn’t know about the letter.”
Roman went quiet.
Too quiet.
Sadi regretted the joke immediately.
“Roman—”
“I’ll call you back.”
The line disconnected.
Sadi closed her eyes.
Then the fire alarm began.
For one terrible second, memory dragged her back to Chloe’s rehearsal dinner.
Red lights.
Gunshots.
Roman pulling her through a corridor.
Margaret appeared.
“Probably a drill.”
Sadi knew better.
Marco entered immediately.
“We’re leaving.”
“No argument.”
That got his attention.
They moved toward the stairwell.
Then Sadi smelled smoke.
Real smoke.
From conservation storage.
“My painting.”
Marco grabbed her arm.
“No.”
“The letter photographs are backed up, but the original—”
“No.”
Smoke rolled across the ceiling.
Someone screamed.
A security guard ran toward them.
“Fire in Archive C!”
Archive C.
Exactly where Elena Rossi’s provenance files were stored.
Sadi understood.
“This isn’t about killing me.”
Marco pulled her toward the stairs.
“What?”
“They’re burning evidence.”
Then the lights went out.
And from somewhere in the dark museum, a man’s voice called her name.
“Sadi Rossi.”
Marco drew his weapon.
Sadi’s heart slammed against her ribs.
The voice came again.
May you like
Closer.
“Your husband should have left the past buried.”
